by Lynn Austin
‘‘I’m not sure. I paid Mr. Wakefield a visit while I was in town. He had a court date over at the county seat so he wasn’t there, but his secretary let it slip that they might have found out where Matthew is living. The address the army hospital gave Mr. Wakefield is for a boardinghouse in Chicago. The address is thirteen years old, of course, but at least they know where to start looking.
Mr. Wakefield has people pursuing a few leads for him in Chicago and they think they’re getting close to finding Matthew. They might have some news for us in just a couple more weeks.’’
‘‘Oh, that’s wonderful news!’’ Aunt Batty still held one end of a bed sheet that was attached to the clothesline with a pin. She got so excited that she twirled right around in a circle with it like she was dancing around a May pole. Gabe walked out of the barn just then to unhitch the wagon.
‘‘You’re dancing, Aunt Batty. What are we celebrating this time?’’ he asked.
‘‘Matthew!’’ she said with a grin. ‘‘We might be close to finding Matthew!’’
‘‘Who?’’ Gabe asked. But I saw his face. He had turned as pale as the bed sheet in Aunt Batty’s hand. He knew who Matthew was. Pretending he didn’t know was a lie, an act. I knew it was.
‘‘Matthew Wyatt is my sister Lydia’s oldest son,’’ Aunt Batty told him. ‘‘He went off to fight in the Great War and never came back.’’
All of a sudden I wanted to stop her. I didn’t want her to tell Gabe the rest—that Matthew owned the farm, not me. I was desperate to interrupt her, to distract her.
‘‘Here, let me finish folding these clothes for you,’’ I said, taking the sheet from her hand. ‘‘It’s too hot for you to be standing around out here in the sun.’’ But Aunt Batty was too excited to stop. I listened helplessly as she blurted out the truth.
‘‘We’ve been looking all over for Matthew because Frank Wyatt’s will deeded the orchard and everything else to Matthew, not to Eliza. Now it looks like we might be close to finding him at last. He’s in Chicago, of all places!’’
Gabe appeared even more shaken than me. He leaned against the wagon as if he might fall over if something didn’t hold him up. Aunt Batty might have noticed it, too, if she hadn’t been so excited. But a moment later Gabe pulled himself together. In a few quick strides he stood so close to me I could smell the scent of his shaving soap on his face.
‘‘Your father-in-law left everything to someone else?’’ he asked in a tight voice. ‘‘None of this belongs to you and the kids? He left you with nothing?’’
‘‘That’s right,’’ I answered, my voice barely above a whisper.
I could see Gabe’s anger building, but he didn’t seem to have anywhere to release it. His jaw tightened and his hands balled into fists.
‘‘No wonder everyone hated Frank Wyatt,’’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘‘I hope he’s rotting in hell!’’
‘‘Oh, Gabe, no!’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘I wouldn’t wish hell on anyone, not even Frank Wyatt. Besides, I don’t know a single person who ever loved that man. To me, that’s hell enough. Can you imagine going through this wonderful life here on earth without ever being loved?’’
I took advantage of the distraction to escape from Gabe, backing away from him and lifting the wicker laundry basket to hold between us like a shield. Without another word, he turned and strode back to the wagon, leading the horses away into the barn.
Gabe didn’t seem like the same person after that day. I would catch him deep in thought at odd moments, like the time he stood on a picking ladder with an apple in his hand, just staring off into the distance, or the time I found him sitting on a milking stool beside Myrtle, staring into the empty pail while she bellowed to be milked. Most times when you tried to talk to him you got the feeling his thoughts were far away from Wyatt Orchards. Even the kids couldn’t interest him in playing ball or going fishing anymore. He stayed out in the barn in the evenings instead of listening to the radio with all of us, and even Aunt Batty couldn’t coax him inside.
His strange behavior made me feel like I walked a tightrope. If he really was Matthew, why didn’t he just step forward and admit it? Was he trying to make up his mind what to do now that he knew everything belonged to him? And if he wasn’t Matthew— well, maybe he was just trying to distance himself from us while he figured out how to say good-bye. Either way, it seemed as though we’d already lost the Gabe we once knew.
August flew past, and by the time the boys headed back to school in September, the end of the long growing season was almost in sight. We’d worked hard and now our labor had finally paid off. The tree branches were heavy with apples. Once they were picked and sold and the corn was harvested, we would all get a much-deserved rest.
Aunt Batty and I worked in the vegetable garden one afternoon while Becky napped. We were picking the last of the green tomatoes to fry before the frost killed them when Sheriff Foster’s car came up the driveway in a cloud of dust. A feeling of foreboding shivered through me, though I didn’t know why.
‘‘Uh-oh,’’ Aunt Batty said, echoing my thoughts. ‘‘Here comes trouble.’’
I didn’t move as the sheriff climbed from his car. He waved when he saw us, then walked across the yard to where we worked.
‘‘I need to have a word with that so-called hired hand of yours, ma’am,’’ he said, tipping his hat. ‘‘The one who calls himself Gabriel Harper.’’
‘‘I don’t care one bit for your tone of voice, Sheriff,’’ I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. Something about his grim face and the shiny badge pinned to his uniform made my heart start to pound. ‘‘Mr. Harper has worked very hard for me. We’re about to bring in the last of the harvest and I never would have been able to accomplish it all without his help.’’
‘‘Well,’’ he said with a heavy sigh, ‘‘I really don’t like being the one to tell you this, but the man who calls himself Gabriel Harper has been lying to you. He’s not who he claims to be...and both John Wakefield and I have reached the conclusion that Harper came here with the deliberate intention of cheating and defrauding you.’’
I felt my knees go weak. Gabe? Came here to defraud me? ‘‘I don’t believe it,’’ I murmured. But even as I said the words, doubt flickered in the back of my mind. I knew he had lied to me when he said that Gabe was his real name. And I knew he’d only pretended not to know who Matthew was. He’d kept a secret hidden from me since the time he’d arrived, but it couldn’t possibly be because he was out to cheat me, could it? That’s the part I couldn’t believe.
‘‘Well, ma’am, it’s true,’’ the sheriff said. He looked at me with pity. ‘‘I can see the man has won your affection and trust—and that makes his crime all the more reprehensible, in my judgment.’’
My words came out in a rush of anger. ‘‘I don’t know what crime you think he has committed, but it hasn’t been against me! He’s done nothing wrong in all the time I’ve known him, nor has he tried to steal my affections.’’ I nearly choked on the lie. Gabe hadstolen my affections, as well as my kids’ affections. Whether he’d done it deliberately or not, I didn’t know.
‘‘Listen,’’ I continued, ‘‘all of Gabe’s actions toward me have been completely honorable! He has worked harder than any hired hand should be expected to work, and he’s taken absolutely nothing from me except his meals and a bed in my barn.’’
‘‘Now, calm down, Eliza. Give me a chance to tell you what John Wakefield and I have found out.’’
‘‘What does Mr. Wakefield have to do with this?’’
‘‘I’m getting to that. See, after I talked to Mr. Harper some months ago, I began making inquiries in Chicago to try and look into this fellow’s background.’’
‘‘Why? What right did you have? What reason?’’
‘‘Let me finish.’’ He held out his hands to quiet me. ‘‘The folks at the Chicago Tribunetold me that ‘Gabriel Harper’ is a pen name he uses. But when I looked into his real identity, I found
out that he claims his real name is Matthew Wyatt—same as your brother-in-law.’’
Gabe really was Matthew!A tidal wave of emotions washed over me—relief, fear, joy, disbelief. I couldn’t even think about what that meant as far as the kids’ and my futures were concerned. All I knew was that I’d found the very man I’d been searching for and I was in love with him and I was pretty sure he loved me. But the sheriff still acted as though he wanted to throw Gabe in jail. He delivered the news to me as if announcing some great tragedy.
‘‘Now, John Wakefield told me that he’s been trying to trace your brother-in-law’s whereabouts,’’ the sheriff continued. ‘‘I understand Matthew has an inheritance coming to him from Frank’s will, isn’t that right? Anyhow, Mr. Wakefield’s search and my inquiries led us to this same man—this so-called Gabriel Harper.’’
I finally found my voice. ‘‘Is it a crime to use a pen name? If Gabe really is my brother-in-law, then that’s wonderful news. And it’s not against the law for him to live here and work for me, is it?’’
‘‘Eliza—that man who’s been working for you is notthe Matthew Wyatt who grew up here in Deer Springs.’’
‘‘How do you know he isn’t? People change. He went through a war—’’
‘‘There’s a real simple way to find out. Is the tip of his right index finger missing? Nail and all? The real Matthew had an accident with a hay mower blade when he was twelve or thirteen years old. Fingers don’t grow back. John and I believe this man came here to defraud you and your children out of their rightful inheritance. You were alone, vulnerable, needing his help.’’
‘‘But Gabe didn’t even know about Frank’s will. I never told him one word about it.’’
‘‘Don’t defend him, Mrs. Wyatt. We believe he did know. This impostor, this Gabe Harper or whoever he is, knows all about the real Matthew Wyatt. John Wakefield subpoenaed his work records at the newspaper to see if he was entitled to the inheritance and found out that Harper listed his parents as Frank and Lydia Wyatt, his birthplace as Deer Springs—he even used Matthew’s real date of birth.’’
Gabe knew much, much more than that. He knew all kinds of personal things, such as what kind of a father Frank Wyatt had been and the secret of how Willie had drowned. And he knew that Matthew wasn’t Frank’s real son, too. I felt as shaken as a tent in a hurricane. The sheriff must have noticed because he rested his hand on my shoulder to steady me.
‘‘As I said, the real Matthew Wyatt has part of a finger missing. Now, if you’ll just tell me where Gabriel Harper is, you’ll see the truth for yourself.’’
I already knew the truth. Gabe did not have any missing fingers. That must be how Aunt Batty knew he wasn’t Matthew, too. I turned to her—but she had disappeared! She had stood right beside me a moment ago when the sheriff pulled up—and now she was gone, silent as a cat. I couldn’t take it all in. I was so stunned to think that Gabe was a criminal who had come here to cheat me that I couldn’t speak. I still couldn’t believe it. The sheriff rested both hands on my shoulders as if he knew I was about to fall over.
‘‘We know that the real Matthew Wyatt moved to Chicago after the army discharged him,’’ he said. ‘‘The police in Chicago are very concerned because Matthew appears to be missing without a trace. Your Mr. Harper might well be connected to his disappearance. Don’t protect him, Eliza. Tell me where he is.’’
I struggled to comprehend the sheriff’s terrible words. I didn’t want to believe them. Had I fallen in love with a criminal? Had I allowed my children to sit on a murderer’s lap?
‘‘Um...Gabe’s in the apple barn,’’ I finally said. ‘‘He’s getting the apple grader ready to use.’’
I followed Sheriff Foster across the yard and into the apple barn like a woman in a dream. But when we went inside, there was no sign of Gabe. Instead, Aunt Batty stood leaning against the grader, smiling just as big as you please. Winky sat at her feet, his tongue lolling as usual.
‘‘Where’s Mr. Harper?’’ the sheriff asked her.
‘‘He’s not here, Dan,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’’
The sheriff pushed past her and ran out the open rear door.
I gaped at Aunt Batty in disbelief. ‘‘You warned him, didn’t you?’’
‘‘Yes, Gabe asked me to. Remember when he was working down at my house, and Dan Foster threatened to check up on him? Gabe made me promise that if the sheriff ever came back looking for him I would come and tell him right away.’’
‘‘But why? What secret is Gabe hiding?’’
She shrugged. ‘‘I didn’t ask him. I just warned him that Sheriff Foster was here, like I promised I would, and Gabe bolted.’’
The sheriff returned just then, puffing slightly. ‘‘I hope you believe me now, Mrs. Wyatt. Innocent men don’t run from the law. May I borrow your telephone? I’m sending for the dogs.’’
‘‘I don’t have a telephone.’’
He huffed in frustration. ‘‘Who’s your nearest neighbor? Does Alvin Greer have one?’’
‘‘You don’t need to send for your dogs,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘My Winky is an excellent hunting dog. Just give him something of Gabe’s and he’ll be hot on his trail in no time.’’ Winky barked in agreement.
The sheriff looked at the fat little dog and frowned skeptically. ‘‘Miss Fowler...Ireally don’t think—’’
‘‘Try it, Sheriff. Look, here’s Gabe’s bandana.’’ She held it close to Winky’s nose. He sniffed the cloth as if his life depended on it. ‘‘Find Gabe, boy! Go get Gabe!’’ she coaxed.
I’d never seen the little dog get so excited before. He barked as if he wanted to tell us something important, and his stubby tail whirled in circles.
‘‘Go get him!’’ Aunt Batty urged again. ‘‘Find Gabe!’’
Winky put his nose to the ground and led the way, waddling out of the back door of the apple barn on his short, bowed legs. I knew he really had sniffed out Gabe’s trail because he trotted toward the barn in a straight line, not in the usual drunken, zigzag pattern his blind eye always caused him to take. I wanted to stop him but I didn’t know how—or why. If Gabe was really the criminal Sheriff Foster claimed he was, why did I still want to protect him?
Winky led us to the workshop where Gabe slept. He pushed the door open with his snout, then jumped up on Gabe’s bed and barked.
‘‘He’s not here,’’ the sheriff said in disgust.
‘‘No, but I’ll bet he was just here,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘This is where Gabe’s been living, and see? His typewriter and all his other belongings are gone.’’
I couldn’t understand what Aunt Batty was doing. Why would she warn Gabe one minute and betray him the next?
The sheriff pointed to the clothes that lay neatly folded on a chair. ‘‘Aren’t these his clothes? He wouldn’t have gone far without these.’’
‘‘They belonged to Sam,’’ I said. ‘‘I loaned them to Gabe because he didn’t have much to wear. He left them here because he isn’t a thief.’’
‘‘But he wore them recently, so they’ll still have Gabe’s scent,’’ Aunt Batty said helpfully. She held one of the shirts near Winky’s snout and the little dog grew excited all over again. He barked, then jumped off the bed and followed Gabe’s trail out the back door of the barn. He led us down the path the cows always took to get to the pasture, then ducked under the barbed-wire fence and into the woods. Aunt Batty and I easily climbed between the wires, but it took Sheriff Foster a little longer to maneuver through the barbed wire without ripping his pants. Winky came back and waited patiently for him on the other side.
‘‘Didn’t I tell you he was a fine hunting dog, Sheriff?’’ Aunt Batty said proudly.
Winky barked again and took off into the underbrush. He led us to a thicket of dense weeds and fallen branches deep in the woods.
‘‘That looks like some sort of a nest, all right,’’ the sheriff said, resting his hand on his holster. ‘‘And
I’ll bet he’s hiding in there. Stand back everyone.’’
Suddenly Winky barked three times, then took off toward home faster than I’d ever seen him run. Aunt Batty clutched the sheriff’s arm. ‘‘Wait a minute, Dan. I wouldn’t go poking around in there if I were you, because—’’
‘‘I said stand back, Miss Fowler. Harper knows he’s cornered and he might be dangerous.’’
‘‘But I think you should know that Winky has made a dreadful mistake and—’’
‘‘I want both of you to step back and stop interfering with this arrest,’’ he said firmly. He pointed back down the path to a large pine tree. ‘‘Go stand over there, out of my way.’’
‘‘We’d better do what the man says,’’ Aunt Batty said with a shrug.
‘‘But is Gabe—?’’
‘‘Trust me, Toots.’’ She pulled me back down the path and we stood beneath the pine tree, waiting. Sheriff Foster pulled out his gun.
‘‘Come on out of there, Harper,’’ he yelled. ‘‘I know you’re in there. You can’t escape.’’ When nothing happened, he picked up a dead tree branch and poked it into the thicket. ‘‘Don’t make this any harder on yourself by resisting arrest.’’
He poked again, deeper, and I heard a rustling in the thicket. From the safe distance where Aunt Batty had dragged me I saw movement. A thatch of dark hair emerged, then Sheriff Foster let out a yell. At the same instant that he yelled, the powerful stench of skunk overwhelmed all of us.
‘‘Ugh! I tried to warn him,’’ Aunt Batty said, shaking her head.
I did feel sorry for Sheriff Foster. The stink was so nauseating it took your breath away and made your eyes water—and the skunk had sprayed him at close range before running off into the woods. The sheriff couldn’t stop coughing and gagging, and we had to lead him back to the house since his eyes stung so badly he couldn’t see.
When we reached the back porch I gave him a basin of water to rinse out his eyes, but I had no intention of inviting him into my house, smelling like he did.